The Adventure of the Dead Wild Bore by Andrea Frazer Page A

if he were wearing trousers, and not with them crossed in a more delicate, ladylike fashion, and just hoped that Dibley hadn’t noticed, and taken it as a come-on.
    Pulling himself (and his knees) together, and deciding that he’d have to get out as soon as it was conveniently possible, but not before he’d had a quick search, Garden was off like a shot, going through the wall unit, through the desk, and even taking a peek through the contents of the sideboard in the dining room. Once in there, he started at the sight of an open fireplace, and the remnants of some papers in it. Kneeling down, careful not to ladder his tights, he removed what he could, took a quick look at it, and became very excited.
    On one fragment he could discern the best part of the word ‘Sherlock’. Dibley had not yet reappeared, but Garden was suddenly aware of a frantic fanfare being played on a car horn, which he recognised as his. Stuffing the paper fragments unceremoniously into his handbag, he fled through the front door and towards his vehicle.
    Outside in the darkness of the garden, Holmes had had an initial swearing fit because there were no lights on in the back room, and he was going to have to search only by the light of the moon and the stars, then a hand in his coat pocket came across a small torch that he used to carry when he had bonfires in the garden, and the batteries seemed to still be in working order.
    Shading its light with his hand, he walked round the garden, finding no evidence whatsoever of any signs of a fire or an incinerator. He moved on towards the dustbin, his shoulders slumped. He didn’t reckon there was any chance of him coming across any incriminating evidence. He absolutely reeked of curry, his hands and clothes were filthy, and his skin was crawling at what he might come across in this festering collection of household refuse.
    The noise Garden had heard had been Holmes trying to smother the sound of the metal dustbin lid as he put it on the ground. Damn these old-fashioned dustbins. Why couldn’t everyone have a wheelie bin or a plastic one; it would make this current episode in his life a damned sight easier.
    He quietly cursed all these men who lived alone for relying on ready-cooked food, as the remains of a Chinese meal landed on his shoes, and he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to change them, and these were his good brown brogues. He’d have to take them into the cobbler’s to see if they had any magic solution for removing chow mein stains from leather. Blast!
    Next, he opened a parcel of newspaper, at first only revealing a pile of potato peelings, and nearly gave up in disgust, when he moved the topmost peelings just to make sure there was nothing else in the parcel, and bingo – there were some fragments of torn and burnt paper, one of them showing the letters ‘Wats …’
    Just stopping himself in time from shouting with triumph, he bundled up the parcel again and inserted it back into the bin, scooping up the Chinese food as best as he could, put back the lid, and hurried off to the car as quickly as possible. When he got inside it, he began to lean on the horn to get Garden’s attention, and it wasn’t long before he saw the man – woman – him/herself, streaking down the garden path towards the vehicle.
    Garden threw himself into the driver’s seat, told Holmes he had evidence in his handbag, thus stealing the older man’s thunder, and drove like the very devil himself to get back to his flat, so that he could change back into men’s clothing and they could go to the police.
    Less than an hour later, they were sitting in DI Streeter’s office putting their case to him. Garden, still with the slightest touch of ‘panda eyes’ from his hasty removal of mascara, had handed over the papers that had, not so long ago, dwelt in one of his many handbags, and Holmes was telling him about